A few years ago the grocery store near our house in Houston closed for a couple of days; and when they re-opened the milk was where the magazines used to be, and the salt was where the packaged cookies once were. In short, nothing was where it had been before.
The twenty-minute raid I usually perpetrated became a lengthy scavenger hunt. My fellow customers wandered around, dazed and dumbfounded, as befuddled as I was about where to find their usual products.
The store even hired new staff whose single purpose was to stand around and answer questions about where to find batteries and toilet paper. It seemed that they’d made major changes for absolutely no reason other than to confound the customers.
And the really crazy thing was that the cashiers and department managers seemed to think all this change was a cause for celebration. The women wore flowers in their hair and inquired more enthusiastically (perhaps sardonically?) than they had before whether I’d found everything I needed. The sackers smiled more brightly and moved with more energy. Even the piped-in music was perkier.
And all I wanted to know was why? Why? Why?
I’m not one to turn on a dime. I confess, my daily existence is based on habit.
When I tell someone that I get up and write at five every morning, most often the response is an admiring comment on how disciplined I am—but I’m not. I’m just someone who gets up early and needs something to kill the time until other people wake up. It’s my routine, not an impressive indication of self-control; though I do enjoy that period before the day starts, when all is dark and still.
I’ve always been an early riser. When I was thirteenish there was a craze involving “come as you are” parties, where a mom would drive her daughter from house to house in the morning and the girl would surprise her friends by pulling them out of their beds and taking them back to her house for breakfast in their pajamas.
The first time someone called my mother to warn her that they’d be by to grab me out of bed at seven-thirty, she felt compelled to tell me to stay in bed because the girls would be disappointed if I was already out of bed and dressed.
“What? No,” I objected, imagining the tedious hour of waiting in bed so I could act like I was asleep simply to avoid disappointing someone. How annoying.
“You chose to be friends with these girls,” she told me in a reasonable tone. “Friends are often inconvenient.”
So, forewarned, I kicked the covers back at my regular time, washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed into fresh pajamas, and watched for their arrival. When the car pulled up out front, I rushed back to bed and pretended to be asleep.
A few minutes later several girls came into my room and jumped on my bed, giggling and shouting my name. When I opened my faking eyes I was surrounded by musky girls wearing embarrassing jammies, with curlers in their hair and pimple goop on their chins and cheeks.
There’s a moral in here somewhere, something about early birds and worms; or maybe it’s early to bed, early to rise. Anyway, I sure looked better than everybody else.
Aside: Come as you are parties—do they still do that?
You’re wondering how girl parties and the grocery store switcharoo pertain to one another.
They pertain because the calendar’s fixing to hand me another birthday, which is an indication that introspection is called for. I have a reputation for being irritable, especially when something unexpected happens or my schedule is disturbed. There’s a theory positing that as a person gets older his or her strongest negative traits become even more dominating—an aroma becomes a stink, so to speak. So it’s understandable that I’m wondering if this irascibility has worsened or if I’ve always been this gripey.
And by comparing the two incidents which are separated by fifty years on my life’s timeline, I’ve concluded that I’ve always been cantankerous. As a kid I was every bit as irritated when something or someone messed with my plans as I am now.
Being able to adjust quickly to change is an admirable quality that I simply don’t possess—and I’m okay with that.
So, happy birthday, me.
Here’s a change I don’t like. They seem to be taking all the Almay products off the shelf, and I love their mascara. And again, why? Why? Why?
And here’s a change I do like. This little guy boosts our house internet so I get better television in the back part of the house. Yay!
Here’s David, who wants me to tell everybody that he didn’t drink all the vodka!
